


Sugar, Spice, and Everything Nice

by qalliope



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: BAMF!John, Crack, Gen, Jam & Kittens
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-21
Updated: 2011-12-21
Packaged: 2017-10-27 16:02:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 923
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/297603
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/qalliope/pseuds/qalliope
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When John Hamish Watson was born, many moons ago, there was no sugar involved in the equation of his existence.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sugar, Spice, and Everything Nice

**Author's Note:**

> Written for a [prompt](http://sherlockbbc-fic.livejournal.com/11848.html?thread=59913800#t59913800) on the Sherlock BBC Kink Meme, Part XIX:
> 
>  _I want a fic where John ISN'T made of kittens, and ABSOLUTELY HATES jam._

When John Hamish Watson was born, many moons ago, there was no sugar involved in the equation of his existence. Only the weak humans in the world were born with candied sugar coursing through their soft veins, turning them into nothing but puddles of _sentimentality_.

There was no spice involved, either, because God had looked down on his beautiful creation and said, plainly, "I think I made a good one, here." _Without_ the sugar or the spice. All of the angels gasped and covered their eyes at this declaration; surely, this John creature was no ordinary human. Obviously, a special plan was being developed, behind closed doors and in hushed whispers.

And there was certainly, _certainly_ , not even a sprinkle of _everything nice_ in John Watson's composition, because that was just silly. This Watson had been born to fight. Had been born to kill. Had been born to survive, when all those around him were dropping like flies from weakness, from hunger, from opposition.

He'd survived a bullet to the shoulder and the ghost of a painful limp given to him by lost comrades, crying children, and cold, dead bodies.

John H. Watson was a soldier, a doctor, and the best damn shag in London (actually, in all of Europe, but where John lacked in sugar and spice he made up for with outstanding modesty).

There was no man on Earth quite like him. The angels had made sure.

So when the third group of tittering teenage girls passed him on the pavement, discreetly peering over their shoulders and _not_ discreetly muttering, " _Oh_ , look at him! His face is adorable! Like a kitten's!" John snapped.

" _Jesus Christ_!" he shouted and punched the nearest wall, which happened to be made of solid brick. When he pulled his hand back, fully expecting blood and broken knuckles and pain, uninjured fingers greeted him. Along with a dented brick wall.

 _Fuck yeah_ , John thought, clenching his jaw at the wall in challenge. _You best hope that's the last of the teenagers_.

He continued walking, brushing past an older man who had witnessed the entire scene. His bushy eyebrows were impossibly high on his forehead, beady black eyes ogling the dented brick. This man was very privileged to witness John in action. Later that night, he would go home to his wife and tell her the story, and they would have extremely satisfying sex.

John had planned to go shopping, but he was too angry to deal with the long list of random (and illegal) items Sherlock had given him to purchase. He wasn't even sure Tesco's sold absinthe, or why he needed it in the fucking first place.

 _Going to wring his neck if he's home_ , John thought darkly as he came to the steps of 221B. He hadn't given a proper yelling in Sherlock's general direction for a good three days; it was time to remedy that right quick.

John nearly bounded up the seventeen steps, murderous thoughts forgotten for the moment, wanting nothing more than to bask in Sherlock's fascination when he told him about denting brick (and leaving out the kitten part, because he might punch _through_ a wall this time). He'd probably ask John to do it again, for research. Sherlock knew John was strong, absurdly so, and he knew that when John was coming off a buzz from punching something or kicking someone or shooting a criminal, he also managed to be indescribably horny.

Interesting, to say the least.

"Hey, Sherlock, you in?" he asked, gaze flickering across the empty sitting room.

"In the kitchen, John."

"Oh, you'll never believe what just happened, Sherlock. Really, it was ama—"

John froze when he reached the kitchen, eyeing Sherlock with wide, disbelieving eyes.

"What. Are. You. Eating?"

"Jam, John. I would like to think that I am living with a man who is, at least, moderately literate." For emphasis, the man pulled the spoon from his mouth with a _pop_ , his tongue darting out to lick the remaining bits of what appeared to be strawberry jam. "Would you like some? I'm sure we could share."

And just like that, John snapped. Again.

This was quickly becoming somewhat of a habit.

"Throw it away," John said, deadly calm. "Throw it away _now_."

Sherlock looked genuinely confused. "I've barely eaten any of—"

"NOW," John said with such menace, such ferocity, Sherlock's eyes bulged out of his head slightly. He couldn't get up fast enough, binning the jar in less than five seconds.

Sherlock knew, among other things, that it was best not to fuel John's anger. The last man that did had been struck by lightning. Coincidence, John had told him, grinning into his soup later that evening.

But Sherlock knew John was a force to be reckoned with, like he was made special, with an infallible disposition and a tendency to survive that surpassed even his own.

 _Of course_ John was special, but Sherlock would never know just how much.

"So, dinner?" John asked, back to his normal, cheerful mood so quickly it nearly gave Sherlock whiplash.

If Sherlock noticed John making obscene gestures at a stray kitten as they walked to Angelo's, he didn't speak up. If he saw a flash of _something_ spark in John's bright eyes as he explained his ordeal with the brick wall, Sherlock brushed it off. He could not, however, ignore John's soft expression after dinner as they were walking home.

"I think we should get a dog. Always been a dog person."

"...Yes, John. I think we should."


End file.
